by Rachel Bard
Nothing happened.
The next morning we received our first word of John’s meeting with the rebel barons. We heard from a wayfarer who had just come from Windsor that the two opposing parties met at the field of Runnymede on the banks of the River Thames. We heard that the weather was fine. We heard that there was a good deal of argument and that after four days the two sides eventually hammered out a seventy-article document. They called it Magna Carta—the Great Charter.
Later that day we had word from John himself.
As a grand finale to the week’s events he’d decreed that a tournament be held and that his court, the barons and their ladies and any of his subjects who chose to come would be welcome. He sent orders to me to bring Henry and Joanna at once. I had no choice but to obey. I still felt perfectly well, and had reluctantly decided the potion was worthless.
Henry was excited at the thought of going to a tournament. Though only eight, he’d been preparing himself for jousting and battle for a year or more. His tutor had been William Marshal no less, the most skilled and admired knight in the land. Sometimes I’d go out to watch William schooling Henry. At William’s signal the boy would trot his pony toward the quintain, the straw man that hung from a post on which knights practiced their swordsmanship. He’d slash at it with his small sword. If his aim was good the quintain would spin around as though suffering a mortal blow. William would call out “Well aimed, Prince Henry!”
Henry knew he couldn’t take part in a tournament yet. But he could watch the knights and cheer his favorites. And his idol William Marshal would be there.
Joanna was less enthusiastic but, as always, obedient.
As for me, in spite of my worry I looked forward to the spectacle. I’d have a chance to see, face to face, the fearsome barons whom John so despised. Even more, I looked forward to finding out just what Magna Carta included. Had John given up many of his jealously guarded prerogatives? What had the barons won that moved them to sign? It was more than curiosity on my part. If this document limited the power of the King, it diminished his Queen as well.
On the day of the tournament, a warm day with light winds, we rode out in procession from Windsor Castle to Runnymede. John and I rode side by side. Nobody watching would have doubted that this was the happiest royal couple in Christendom. John’s face, usually phlegmatic unless he was angry, was positively beaming. He smiled occasionally at spectators who’d lined up along the road. Once he even sent a smile my way. I didn’t return it. John had always been good at forgetting his past misdeeds. Sometimes I envied him that.
Behind us rode Prince Henry and Princess Joanna, then a long line of dignitaries. Archbishop Stephen Langton led the way, his spare frame robed in voluminous folds of scarlet so he looked twice his actual size. His tall white mitre bobbed along like a beacon to guide those who came behind. These included William Marshal; the new justiciar, Hubert de Burgh—I had not yet come to know him; Pandulfo, who’d been reinstated as papal legate replacing Nicholas; the Grand Master of the Knights Templar; and various other bishops, barons and lords who’d remained faithful to John. Though it seemed a substantial party, I saw when we arrived at the fields of Runnymede how our number was dwarfed by the assembly of barons.
Well above the marshy stretch by the smoothly flowing river, brightly colored tents and pavilions dotted the meadow. The jousting grounds were laid out in their midst. The pennants that lined the course snapped in the breeze, cavorting like frisky pups on a leash. Rows of raised seats had been set up on either side of the lists, many already filled. Those barons who wouldn’t be taking part in the tournament had shed their armor and milled about with much shouting and loud laughter. Townspeople had left their shops and country folk their fields to settle on the slopes above. Enterprising vendors were crying their wares—ale, pasties, pickled pigs’ feet, fresh cherries, treacle tarts. When I got a whiff of roasting pork I felt an uneasiness in my stomach.
A page escorted us to our seats at the center of the stands just as trumpeters announced the start of the tournament with three piercing blasts. Henry, sitting between his father and William Marshal, jumped up and down in his seat and cried, “Here they come!” Two knights emerged from their tents, one at either end of the lists. Each was sheathed from neck to hips in silvery mail and wore a visored helmet of burnished steel. Each held a shield in his left hand, a long lance in his right. Their squires helped them leap on their waiting horses.
I’d seen many tournaments, but never failed to get caught up in the excitement. The children were full of questions.
“Is that a real lance with a steel tip?” Henry wanted to know. “No,” said William. “It has a blunt iron point. They’ll try to hurt each other but not to draw blood.”
“Why will they try to hurt each other?” Joanna asked me. This was her first tournament.
“It’s a game, a contest,” I replied. “They have to hurt each other at least a little bit, or knock their opponent out of the saddle, or we won’t know who wins.”
“I think the knight with the red and gold shield will win,” said Henry. “He looks a little bigger. And his horse is a lot bigger.”
“You may be right,” said William Marshal. “That’s Richard de Percy. He’s seldom been unhorsed.”
“Well, I think the one with the silver and black shield will knock him right down,” said Joanna.
The herald who stood midway between the two opponents raised his flag. With a flourish he let it fall. A roar came from the crowd. Both chargers galloped toward each other, their riders holding lances level, arms drawn back, ready to strike. Sure enough, red-and-gold hit silver-and-black with such force, in the very center of his shield, that he tumbled out of his saddle. He landed on the dusty ground with such a crash that I flinched. He lay there for half a minute while I, and many others I’m sure, thought he was dead. But no, he picked himself up and led his horse off while the victor doffed his helmet and accepted the cheers of the crowd. Henry did his best to add his voice to the acclaim. Joanna looked glum.
I didn’t know if it was the shock of seeing the fallen warrior, but I suddenly felt a pain shoot through my whole body, so sharp that I doubled over in my seat and clutched my midsection. I think I moaned. John, William Marshal and the children all looked at me in alarm. The first to move was Lady Anne, who was sitting behind me. She hurried to my side, just as John reached me. I managed to straighten myself. The sharp pain had lessened but I hurt from head to toe.
“Isabella, what is it?” John asked, taking my hands in his.
“I don’t know, but it’s better now.” I fought to get my breath. “I’ll be all right. Just let me get back to Windsor where I can lie down. You must stay, John, please, it’s important for you to be here on your day of triumph. And the children must see the rest of the tournament. ”
“I’ll see to getting her away, my lord. We’ll send word to you if you need to come,” said Anne, helping me to my feet. William de Cantilupe and Anne guided me from the stands.
Back in Windsor Castle, Anne and my ladies put me to bed and watched over me. I went through hours of wrenching pains, of retching until there was nothing more to bring up, of praying for death—anything to end my agony. By morning I was free of pain but so weak that I could hardly move an eyelid.
I had not lost the child.
It took John, aided by the wily Pandulfo, only four months to persuade the Pope to annul Magna Carta. The civil war began again. It was John with his ruthless mercenaries from the Continent against the barons with their new ally Prince Louis of France, to whom they’d offered the crown of England as an inducement to join them. This made John even fiercer. He fought them up and down England from the Firth of Forth to Dover, from London to the Welsh Marches.
I didn’t see much of him. When I did, I still served as audience for his diatribes. Where only a year ago I would have listened idly, not much caring who was doing what to whom, now in spite of myself I admired his ability to seize the advantage from his
enemies. From everything I heard from him and from others, John was absolutely tireless in his pursuit of the rebels, chasing them from one place to another, besieging any castles they’d taken, reinforcing the garrisons of the ones he held.
“If they called him John Softsword in France, he’s become John Sharpsword here at home,” said William de Cantilupe. He’d come from Rochester Castle, which John had just taken, with messages from the King. We were in my apartments in Winchester. In the seventh month of my pregnancy and feeling far from well, I’d asked William to give his report there and to assemble the household knights, the lords and ladies of the court and others who should hear how their king fared.
Henry and Richard listened open-mouthed while William described the taking of Rochester. It had to do with John ordering tunnels to be dug under the formidable stone keep; having the tunnelers shore them up with wooden supports as they went; greasing the supports thickly with the fat from forty pigs; bringing in straw and brush; and throwing in a burning fagot.
“The whole place exploded like a bonfire in hell. The keep collapsed and you should have heard the crash!” The normally reserved William was remarkably animated as he told the story. I wondered if perhaps he had had something to do with devising the scheme.
“Taking Rochester was a great feather in King John’s cap,” said William. “But this is just the beginning. The barons are on the march. So, my lady Queen, the King has directed that you and the young princes and princesses are to go to Corfe Castle, where you will be safe. He will come to see you there as soon as he can.”
I didn’t want to go. I was perfectly content at Winchester. But William explained to me that Corfe Castle in Dorset the most impregnable fortress in the entire realm. John wanted his Queen and his children to be as far as possible from the war. So we went.
In November 1215 my third daughter, the child I’d never wanted, was born at Corfe. When I held her in my arms my resentments melted away. She was tiny, innocent, defenceless. It wasn’t her fault she’d been born. I wanted to love her and I did.
I named her for John’s mother, Eleanor. I had an idea she might need strength, self-confidence and an indomitable spirit. Beauty would help, too.
Chapter 47
Henry III
1216-1217
“Look mother, how beautiful!”
Corfe castle looked like no other castles I’d known in my whole life. I liked it from the first day I saw it. It could have been a fairy-tale castle with its white battlements against a blue sky. It wasn’t in the middle of a town or city, but right at the top of a hill, floating above the village below. All around it was nothing except more green hills.
We arrived there about noon on a late-October day. We were a very large party--my mother, my sisters and brother and I, as well as all our lords and ladies of the court. We’d brought our cooks and grooms and other retainers too.
We were all tired. I hadn’t wanted to come. Neither had my mother. She grumbled all the way about having her baby in a strange godforsaken place instead of in Winchester where she felt so at home
The constable of the castle, Peter de Maulay, was waiting at the outer gatehouse. I liked him right away. He wasn’t as noble-looking as William Marshal, or as neat and proper as William de Cantilupe, but he was very friendly. He was tall and burly and usually looked somewhat rumpled. His head was quite bald. He smiled often.
He led us on to the inner bailey. Now I had a good look at the keep. It was just as my father had described it to me before we left Winchester. He said the castle keep was a huge, tall white tower in the middle of the other buildings.
Sir Peter saw me staring up at it. He must have read my mind. He grinned at me.
“Can’t wait to get up there, eh Prince Henry? Well, let’s get the Queen and her ladies settled, then I’ll take you and Prince Richard up to the top.”
With his wife, Lady Isabelle, he gave us a tour of the castle. After that all of us, even my mother, felt better about our new home. She was especially pleased with the royal apartments.
“That long vaulted hall is nearly as big as the one at Westminster. I think this will do very well indeed!” I heard her tell Lady Isabelle when she was looking over her own rooms. “Just look at those blue damask hangings on the wall and these thick Persian carpets. And what a handsome bed, all curtained in blue and yellow! If John had told me more about Corfe Castle I would have begged to come long ago.”
Within the hour, as good as his word, Sir Peter conducted my brother and me, as well as his own son Roderick—about my age—up the keep’s long coiling stairway. Narrow windows along the way gave me slivers of view, mostly of sky.
While we climbed I thought about what my father had told me about the keep. He’d sounded so proud of it.
“Did you build it, father?” I’d asked him.
“No, old King William’s son, King Henry the First, built that keep. He made it strong enough to hold off a thousand Vikings, if any had still been around. But I added the high outer curtain wall. You’ll see it the minute you get the castle in sight. Now when you are at Corfe, my son, you must make yourself familiar with every inch of the castle. You must be ready, in case you ever have to defend it when you are king.”
I’d nodded. I was proud that my father was advising me about my future role as a king.
“And don’t forget the dungeons. Make sure they’re secure. We may have to send a new batch of prisoners there before this war with the malcontent barons is over. No prisoner has ever escaped from Corfe. And none ever will, Henry, as long as we’re vigilant.”
I’d shivered at the thought of the dungeons. Now that I was here I decided I’d let that part of my father’s instructions wait. What I wanted most of all was to get to the top of the keep.
Finally when I thought we’d climbed halfway to heaven we came out onto a square platform with a low wall.
Richard and I peered over the edge at the bailey below us. The other buildings, with tiny figures moving about between them, looked like toys. We knelt at the low points in the wall and pretended we were shooting arrows at invading armies. Looking around, I could see for miles across rolling fields where flocks of distant sheep were like clusters of white flowers on the green. I’d never been so high above the ground. Roderick pointed out the sights.
“All the ridge to east and west is the Purbeck Hills. You can see where they’ve dug into the cliff for the stone to build the castle walls. We call it limestone but it’s really marble. And way down there”—he pointed toward the south—“is the Channel. You can’t see it, but I’ve been there. Maybe my father will take us riding that way while you’re here. “
“I will indeed,” said Sir Peter. “It’s important for the princes to see that precious body of water that protects England from enemies abroad. But if by some chance some marauders should make a landing, Corfe Castle would stop them in their tracks.”
I could well believe it.
Just as I’d liked Sir Peter and his son Roderick at once, my mother soon became fast friends with Lady Isabelle. For one thing, she was the daughter of our old household steward Robert de Thorneham. For another, she was only a year younger than my mother, lively and pretty. They found they had a lot in common besides their names, like the fact that they were both pregnant. Lady Isabelle’s child wasn’t expected for some months, but my mother’s was due any day. This would be her fifth child.
When her fourth, my baby sister Isabella, was born I was only six and hardly knew what was going on. I felt much older now, at nine. I told my brother Richard and my sister Joanna that we were going to have a council meeting to discuss the upcoming event. We’d hold it at the top of the keep. I led the way.
Joanna had a hard time keeping up, what with her short little legs and the steepness of the stairs. When she puffed her way out to the open air she was red as a poppy. She mopped her face with the hem of her long skirt and flopped down on the stone paving, getting her breath back. She lay there looking up.
&n
bsp; “I don’t see what’s so special about this place. I can see the sky just as well from down below.” So of course we had to pull her to her feet and make her look around. She agreed it was wonderful.
I thought it was time to get down to business. I had it all planned.
“Since I’m the oldest, I’ll open the meeting of the King’s Children’s Council. We’ve excused Isabella from coming because she’s so little. You all know that our mother the Queen is going to have a baby. We have to talk about three things: when it will come, whether it will be a boy or a girl, and what it should be named.”
“We can’t decide when it will come, that’s up to God,” objected Joanna. “God says, ‘Now I think I will send a baby down to Queen Isabella,’ and that’s when it’s born.”
“We can’t decide whether it will be a boy or a girl, either,” said Richard. “I think our mother and father decide that, or maybe God.”
“It’s God,” said Joanna. “I asked my mother, and that’s what she said.”
“Well, I think it’s too bad the baby’s own parents can’t say whether they want a girl or a boy.”
The discussion was getting out of hand.
“Never mind all that,” I said. “We aren’t here to decide those things, but to make bets on what will happen, and to pick a name for a girl or a boy. Now everybody keep quiet and think, then I’ll give the signal and we’ll make our wagers.”
Joanna frowned and thought hard. Richard knew his answers right away and jumped up to march around the battlements. After a couple of minutes I called the meeting to order.
“You first, Richard.”
“It will come Tuesday week and it’ll be a boy. His name will be Edward.”
“Why Edward?” Joanna asked.
“I just like it. Besides, I think there were a lot of Edwards in our family, way back.”
“Well, I think it will be a girl, and it will come day after tomorrow, and we’ll call her Eleanor. That was our grandmother’s name and it’s a pretty name.”